If You're Still Breathing, You're the Lucky Ones
by clotpolesforever
Summary: I suck at summaries, so just click on the thing, ok? Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

If You're Still Breathing, You're the Lucky Ones.

 **The Last Dragonlord AU, because Merlin deserves some fucking happiness in his life. T for swearing and BAMF parents. AKA: that one where Balinor doesn't die, and Dragonlord inheritance show up when the kid turns 21. Also, not-totally-depressing-Freylin! Merlin whumpage. Protective!Balinor and Hunith. Enjoy!**

One: If You're Still Bleeding, You're the Lucky Ones.

Merlin could see his father—that still felt strange—moving to protect him. He knew, in that moment, only a few things: his father was a Dragonlord, a dragon was attacking Camelot, it was his fault, his father would die if he didn't do something, he couldn't let that happen, and he had less than two seconds to decide what to do about it. So Merlin shoved Balinor roughly to the side as the mercenary's blade shoved through his abdomen. He felt no pain, just a strange sense of pressure-hot-cold-numb-floating-falling. His sight was strangely blurred and distant. He didn't remember hitting the ground, but there was the scent of wet leaves and warm, live earth filling his nostrils.

"Ah," thought Merlin, "this place would have been good for farmland." As he watched his own blood spill over the ground where in another life he would have sought to grow crops, he distantly heard his father scream in rage and pain, several thuds, Arthur— _Arthur?_ —crying out, frightened, "Merlin! Oh, god, Merlin!" His father's strong, worn hands cradled his face; his father's eyes swam into focus as Merlin attempted a pained smile.

"Don't worry, son. Everything's going to be alright now. I-it's going to be alright, I just need you to stay awake for me. You hear me? You stay with me, Merlin. Stay with me." There was a sharp tug on the blade lodged in his side, and something that sounded a lot like Gaius' voice tells him that's not a good idea, that it has something to do with blood loss, but he can't think properly because _ithurtsithurtsgoddessithurtssomuch_. All pain, no pressure. He let out a garbled howl that sounded more like a wounded beast than anything resembling a human being.

There was a tearing noise that vaguely registered somewhere in the recesses of his tortured brain, and then his father growled something angrily, something he can't quite make out. Arthur's reply, whatever it was, is mired in confusion and shock. And then there was golden light, in his father's eyes, swirling around him in a glorious dance of light and shadow.

The pain is gone, but the shadows deepened and swallowed him whole, greedily dragging him down to their belly, where the ghosts of all that might have been rose up and looked upon him with pity and scorn, this fallen creature whom some call monster, some call demon, some traitor, some friend, some warlock, some Emrys. Only two of the ghosts call him son. These two cradled him in their arms and begged him in broken tongues to wake up. He resisted, afraid. Then another ghost, one who calls him friend, begged him too, and he stopped resisting, though he is still afraid. Then everything _twists_ and a ghost in a red dress smiled at him as she walked up to him. She placed a kiss on his forehead, slipping a rose in his hand as she does. "Come, my love," she said. "Time to wake up." And Merlin thought, right before he opened his eyes to a new morning, that out of all the ghosts, he liked her best.

 **A/N: So, there's the first bit! Yay me! Oh, and in case that last part was confusing, poor Merls went a little delirious due to blood loss. Idk if that happens in real life or not, but I am pretending it does for this story. Kay? Kay.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Featuring Protective!Balinor and Guilty!Arthur because they give me life.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

Two: Our Minds are Troubled by the Emptiness.

Balinor was more than aware of his many failings. How could he not be? He'd had twenty years alone with them. One thing he had no intention of failing at, though, was his protective instinct. It was this that had driven him to help the wounded Prince, after all.

Then he had balked at helping Camelot with the dragon, mostly because he felt Kilgharrah had every right to raze it to the ground after what had been done to him and his kin.

He'd even told that boy as much. The boy with Balinor's father's eyes. The boy with Balinor's little brother's unruly mop of soot-black curls. The boy with Hunith's bleeding heart. He'd told the boy to let Camelot burn. Then the boy had informed him, half angry, half hopeful, that he was Balinor's son. That had all but killed him. He had a son. A son who had never known him. A son who he had never known. A son who was quietly disappointed in him for refusing to help. A son with Hunith's bleeding heart, who was now bleeding on the ground, a sword sticking out of his side due to a misguided attempt to _save Balinor_. Rage crashed through him, all the fury of his dragon-kin expending itself, white fire burning in his veins to shoot out from his hands with a shapeless howl as his eyes ignited in that damning gold, killing the mercenaries for even _daring_ to harm _his son_.

The Prince, to his credit, does not condemn this use of magic; he is too concerned for his servant—friend?—lying pale and bloodied on the ground. They both rushed over to Merlin. The Prince—Arthur—spares him a glance as they looked at the damage. (There's so much blood. The air is thick with it.) Balinor cradled his son's face, something dying in his chest as the boy attempted a smile. He offered a rather pitiful smile of his own, "Don't worry, son. Everything's going to be alright now. I-it's going to be alright, I just need you to stay awake for me. You hear me? You stay with me, Merlin. Stay with me."

Arthur gripped the hilt of the sword, his voice tight with worry, "should I remove it?"

Balinor sighed, "I'll have to use magic to heal him."

Arthurs nodded, swallowing thickly, "do it, then. He's my friend; I can't—I can't lose him." Arthur slid the sword out of Merlin's side—they both cringed at the sound that makes—as Merlin, who had been barely conscious up to that point, gave a heart-wrenching scream, his body doubling over briefly. Balinor used a dagger to cut the shirt open. And then he stopped, because what he sees beneath all that blood is so fraught with meaning that his hands shook with the force of his anger. Most of his son's torso—what he can see of it, anyway—is covered in scars.

"What the damned hell is this?" he snarled at the Prince, his tone accusational.

Arthur replied, his eyes wild and shattered and colorless and blue and scared and fierce, every inch of him _Ygraine_ in that moment, "I don't know." Then Balinor calmed, shoving the broken pieces of his heart back into imperfect place, not caring that it hurts because it means he's still on this side of the veil. He calmed, and spoke the words to heal his son, startled when Merlin's eyes flash gold as he fumbled a pale hand on Balinor's arm, healing a cut Balinor doesn't remember receiving. All the broken pieces fumbled and slid out of imperfect place like shattering glass, and he doesn't have the heart to pick them up again.

 **A/N: Yay for chapter two! Let me know what you think. I had trouble with the possessives (you know: he, his, they, theirs). Listened to Panic! At the Disco and Black Parade from My Chemical Romance while writing this. Maybe that's why it turned out all angsty and not like my original idea…. Or nah.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: And here is chapter three! Yay! Warnings for mentions of violence, torture and implied self-harm.**

 **To all the lovely people who reviewed: Thank you so much! I legit have never done this before so feedback is awesome.**

 **Disclaimer: If I owned anything, there would be an ice-skating rink in Hell.**

Three: Destroy the Middle, It's a Waste of Time.

Prince and Dragonlord eyed each other across the fire, a pale form motionless between them acting the elephant in the proverbial room.

"So—"

"What did—" Arthur gave a wry smile, "you first, then."

"So, care to explain how a _servant_ in your household has more scars than most knights? Or why you thought it a good idea to bring someone-who is not only three years younger than you but also has no weapons or protection to speak of-into the territory of a king hostile to your own, to hunt down a dangerous sorcerer just in the slight hope that said sorcerer might help you?"

Arthur swallowed a bit and shifted his weight on the log he's sitting on, "to answer your first question, I honestly have no idea. Some of them could conceivably be from expeditions we've been on." Balinor cut him a look that was eerily reminiscent of Gaius. "He comes with me everywhere; I've tried leaving him behind before, it doesn't work! H-he seems to think it his sacred duty to protect me or something. Always going on about destiny and the sides of a coin and rubbish like that."

The look on Balinor's face changed into one of thinly-veiled fury. "Kilgharrah," he growled, the name falling from his lips like a curse. He stood up and moved away from the fire, toward the larger part of the clearing they're in. Then Arthur got the shock of his life when the man started _roaring_ at the sky. His skin crawled with the feeling of witnessing something ancient, primitive, almost war-like in a way he can't quite describe.

Balinor apparently finishes with—whatever it was he was doing, because he turned back around to regard the Prince, who has stood up into a half-crouch, looking shocked and scared.

"What the hell was all that?!" he cried.

Balinor grinned, "oh, well, I thought it high time to have a chat with a certain dragon terrorizing your city."

"...YOU CALLED A BLOODY _DRAGON_ HERE?!"

"That is generally the meaning of a summons, lad."

A familiar-looking dragon landed in the clearing about half an hour later. The golden dragon that had once been imprisoned beneath Camelot grinned at him. The wound in Arthur's shoulder throbbed.

"How small you are for such a great destiny, young Pendragon."

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me." A large hand slammed into the back of his head. "Oi!"

Balinor glared at him, "your mother would have thanked me for doing that. Would've done it herself, too, with that mouth of yours." The man then turned to regard his oldest friend. "Now, what's all this about you attacking Camelot and nearly giving my boy a conniption with all this destiny-talk, hm?" Arthur thought that, despite the obvious difference in age and species, in that moment, Balinor looked for all the world like an older brother scolding a younger one. Then they switched to that strange tongue Balinor had used to call the dragon, and Arthur decided to go check on Merlin.

The number of scars sickened him, especially the ragged burn in the middle of his friend's chest. There were others, though. So many others. Tiny spiderweb-thin ones curling over his hands, probably from all the polishing and sharpening of swords he'd done over the past two years. Thicker ones on his forearms, obviously defensive wounds from numerous bandit attacks. A peculiar shiny scar rippling out over his left shoulder. (Arthur could only vaguely guess as to the origins of that one.) And that was just on his front.

Arthur did not want to think of the reasons why his friend—his eternally clumsy, sometimes wise, kind, smart-aleck friend—would have nearly seventy scars twining and colliding on the flesh of his back, obviously the remnants of some brutal flogging. He didn't want to think about why someone had carved the word 'monster' in uneven, jagged runes into the back of Merlin's right hip. He didn't want to think about why the runes looked as though someone had clawed at them with their fingernails. He didn't want to think about why they looked as though someone had re-carved them so they could again be read clearly.

He didn't want to think about why there was a thick slightly reddish puckered grin of a scar halfway across the belly of Merlin's throat, just where that ridiculous scarf usually was. He didn't want to think about it, but he wondered, and knew he probably would loathe whatever answers were given.

 **A/N: I wrote this instead of sleeping, mostly because insomnia is a little bitch right now. I literally did not mean for it to get this angsty, but the plot bunnies ambushed me with a frying pan to the head, so…. You're welcome. Let me know what you think; if you like/hate it, ideas about how to proceed, whatever. Thanks, and allons-y, Alonso! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: A much needed father-son chat is had. Merlin pouts about his shirt and ugly-cries about other things. Arthur is a sneaky Pratdragon. Balinor really wants to punch somebody.**

 **Also, to address a "slight" problem I just realized: Freya dies in canon before we ever meet Balinor. Therefore, this is shortly before we meet Freya but everything else has happened according to canon. So, while Morgana is (presumed missing by Uther) off learning dark magic with Morgause, the boys are trying to save Camelot from a dragon and Freya has not appeared but is presumably about to get captured by Halig. Hope that'll clear things up as to the timeline. Also, this chapter is pretty dialogue-heavy, and I'm not sure if the characters are OOC or not, so I apologize in advance if they are. Have fun.**

 **P.S.: Trigger warning for discussion of a suicide attempt. Because I apparently can't help making a certain warlock all depressed and angsty and shit. Also fluff involving Balinor trying to be a dad. And hugs, because Merlin needs hugs and no, Arthur, hugs are not "unmanly", now be quiet. (Completely unrelated side note: am I the only one wishing I could give season two Merlin a sandwich?)**

 **Disclaimer: Me no own.**

Four: Most of Us Are Heaving Through Corrupted Lungs.

Merlin woke up at a truly godforsaken hour, just when the sky began to bruise blue with the vague promise of dawn. Balinor was awake already, whittling the little dragon figurine he'd made two days ago (and had it really only been two days?), shaving carefully at the wings because something seemed a bit off about them. Arthur was passed out on his bedroll, sprawled out with his back to the fire and dreaming (a naked blade not far from his fingertips), ignorant of the fact that Balinor had usurped his watch because of the ancient _need_ clawing at the inside of his rib cage to protect _his boy_ , to make _absolutely certain_ that he would be alright. The dried blood on his tunic did not help calm that urge in the slightest. _It is nearly twenty years too late,_ his thoughts whispered, _judging by those scars, all because I was too much of a coward; because I wasn't there_. Balinor agreed silently with the whispers, even though a voice that sounded uncomfortably like _her_ was telling him to get over himself because it wasn't his fault that his son turned out to be more reckless and self-sacrificing than he'd ever been.

Merlin woke with a soft keening noise dying quickly in his throat, a whispered word falling from his lips like absolution (Balinor's heart clenched painfully to hear it (philtate; most beloved) and yet he wondered how his son knew the words of the dragon tongue when he was too young yet to command his ancient kindred). He opened his eyes blearily, his unfocused gaze wandering from Arthur to Balinor to the fire to the surrounding trees. He gave a quiet moan as his vision cleared and managed to force himself to sit up, scowling at the campfire as though it had personally offended him. Balinor set his project aside, brushing wood chips from his trousers as he got up and edged around the fire to sit down beside his son.

"Good morning," Balinor murmured, shattering the silence. Arthur gave a strange cough, but otherwise didn't rouse from his sleep. Merlin made a noncommittal noise in his throat. Balinor thought, in a strangely distant way, that with the light from the fire dancing on his skin, with his somehow ancient eyes, that his son could in this moment be mistaken for one of the Fae Folk. (Neither of them know it yet, but ages later there will be stories that Merlin's father was a demon, an incubus. Merlin will someday chance upon them and think them at once insulting and ridiculous and burn every copy he can get his hands on.)

"Come on, don't be like that. Or do you not think it's a good morning?"

"It's too _early_ to be morning," Merlin grumbled petulantly, slouching down further and crossing his arms over his bare chest, dragging the tattered edges of his tunic closed. Then, "I only have two, you know."

"What?"

"Shirts. I only have two." (Balinor did not mention that he himself owned five shirts, even living as he had for the last twenty years, and it struck him rather suddenly how wretchedly poor his son and almost-wife have been.) "It's not his fault," Merlin blurted out, looking like he very much regretted those words the instant they came out of his mouth. "Arthur, I mean."

Balinor, naturally, had a fairly good idea what his son meant, but decided to ask anyway. "What's not his fault?"

" _This_ ," Merlin replied, giving up his attempt to cover himself as a bad job and shrugging out of his ruined shirt entirely, all his scars on display. He stared at his hands for a few moments in silence before muttering, "I suppose you have questions."

"Anyone would, lad."

"Where should I start then?"

"How about the massive burn on your chest?"

"Er, well, remember Nimueh?"

"...Yes." _How could I forget the woman who gave the Prince of Camelot life and was indirectly responsible for starting the Great Purge?_

"She threw a fireball at me."

" _She_ _ **what**_?!" Balinor snarled, his fists clenching so hard his bones creaked and bloodied crescents bit into his palms.

"It's fine," Merlin waved away his father's concern with a half-shrug and a fluttering of pale fingers, far too nonchalant about _almost dying_ at the hands of a _High Priestess_ for Balinor's taste, "I exploded her with lightning, so she's not exactly about to hurt anyone else." Arthur made another strange noise from the other side of the fire, and they both tensed before concluding that the prince was still asleep. Balinor struggled to get ahold of his emotions, anger and pain and guilt and confusion and shock smashing through him with all the force of a dragon's talons, and he had a hard time reining them in to return to the task at hand, trying to convince himself there would be time for the full story of that encounter later.

"What about your shoulder? That shiny patch?"

A beat of silence, then, "Will lit me on fire."

"…What?" _What_ _ **the hell**_ _is with this boy and fires? And who's Will so I can hunt him down and punch him in the face for displaying such spectacular idiocy as to hurt_ _ **my**_ _son?_

Merlin sighed, "we were fourteen and stupid and stole some mead from Old Man Simmons. Will splashed half a tankard on my arm and shoved me into the fire pit. I think that's why it looks different than a normal burn scar. Mum was so furious at me she didn't speak to me for a fortnight. She also gave Will a black eye for being a bad influence. He was a good friend, despite that. He's dead now, y'know. And I'm not allowed to mourn him because Arthur thinks he was a sorcerer."

 _Ah, so, can't hit him then. Well, at least Hunith got a good whack in. …Say something, you fool!_

"I'm sorry to hear it. He sounds like the sort of lad I'd've liked." _Aside from the lighting-people-on-fire bit, at any rate._

"Yeah."

"Right then, what about the whip-marks on your back? Those look like they were fairly serious." _Please tell me I can hit someone this time…_

"I got caught poaching once when I was about sixteen. It was during a particularly bad winter. The forest around Ealdor is technically owned by Lord Dafydd, but he never really pays attention to it or the villagers. The only reason I got caught was because he was hunting the buck I took down. He was a complete ass about the whole thing; he took the deer back and sentenced me to sixty lashes. I think I passed out around forty, but my memory of that day and the next few weeks has always been rather unclear. Gaius helped patch me up afterwards, I remember that much. Probably why the scars aren't worse."

"Is he dead? This Lord David?" _Please say no._

"Dafydd. And no, he's still alive, which is surprising considering Will clouted him in the head with a frying pan." Arthur mumbled something incoherent and twitched. Father and son paid the prince no mind.

"And your throat? Who did that?" _I'm going to kill the sick fool who dared it, I don't_ _ **care**_ _who it is._ Arthur twitched again.

Merlin shifted, squirming nervously with a strangely guilty look on his face. Stammering, "I uh, well, erm, thing is, I wasn't…"

A sense of foreboding crawled up Balinor's spine. _Oh, please, no. Tell me it's not what I think,_ _ **please**_ _._ "Merlin?" he rumbled. A few beats of silence, "son?"

Merlin turned his head to look at his father for the first time since this conversation began, tears glistening in his too-bright eyes (and Balinor was reminded sharply of his little brother (Gaheris, his brother's name had been Gaheris), of a similar self-inflicted wound, except his brother's midnight eyes were both too-bright and dulled, his brother blood-drenched and lifeless and _gone_ , and his heart broke all over again in such a way that he wondered if people could really die from it), his skin deathly pale but for that angry red scar on his neck. "I-I-I d-did," he whimpered, his hands trembling.

Balinor reached out and dragged his son to him, cradling the boy (he had never done this with his brother, and he couldn't help but think that was why things turned out the way they had) as they both wept. Merlin sobbed wretchedly, repeating over and over, "I'm sorry, Da, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as Balinor drew great shuddering breaths, murmuring vaguely reassuring things with tears streaming down his face, his hands gripping just a little too tightly (and hells, the boy really was too thin for it to be healthy), neither of them giving a single damn about the body on the other side of the fire.

 **A/N: TADA! I'm back you guys! Sorry it took so long, but real life happened and then I got a puppy, so… Also sorry that not much happened as far as plot (or a certain Druid), but I feel like this conversation needed to happen. Drop a review and let me know what you think!**


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